


You Can't Feel Nothing Small

by dashwoods



Category: Holby City
Genre: F/F, RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-06
Updated: 2017-04-06
Packaged: 2018-10-15 09:18:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10553880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dashwoods/pseuds/dashwoods
Summary: It's Catherine's last performance, it's her last night in Bath.





	

Catherine nervously fidgets after the show, knows Jemma came tonight, knows she'll see her, in person, for the first time since their last scene together on Holby. She touches her temple self-consciously, the fine greying hairs, how short it is. She thinks she looks older than Serena Campbell, wonders what Jemma will think. She stares at her reflection in her dressing room mirror. Her face is still covered in the thick theater makeup, her eyes heavily shaded, her cheeks bright and rosy, her mouth red, so red. 

There’s a knock, and a quiet “it’s me,” and Catherine can’t open the door fast enough. And then she sees that blonde hair, that lanky body, all of it, and then she is caught up in Jemma's embrace. "I've missed you!" she says in Catherine's ear, and Catherine closes her eyes at the sentiment, holds Jemma close, breathes in her familiar scent. 

They pull apart and Jemma's hands go to Catherine's head. "Your hair! It's short!" She rubs her thumbs fondly against Catherine's cheeks, and she goes red, though it's hidden under the layers of Mrs. Prentice. Catherine notices a smudge of lipstick on Jemma’s cheek, rubs at it with her thumb.

Jemma’s brought flowers, crushed between them in their hug. Catherine laughs, points at all the flower deliveries she’s received, filling her room with a lovely, if somewhat overpowering, floral scent. “I like yours best, though,” she says, breathing them in, and Jemma blushes. Catherine’s feeling a bit maudlin, a bit sad about it all being over. She has so loved being on stage, and she doesn’t know what’s next for her and Holby City. She’s got a period of nothing, no plans, no obligations, and it’s as welcome as it is scary, but she’s still feeling a bit weepy. “Remember our first kiss?” she asks, apropos of nothing and Jemma looks at her sharply, as if checking that this is what Catherine wants. “We were so tired and sad and world-weary. I feel a bit like that now.” And it’s true. Her own personal feelings at the moment are all wrapped up in her weariness at the world, and everything, just everything, is all too much.

She doesn’t mean it as an invitation, not really, but that’s how it comes off, and Jemma doesn’t seem to mind as she leans in to kiss Catherine. Catherine immediately puts her hands in Jemma’s hair, Jemma’s sunglasses complicating the matter, but she likes the fluffy blonde strands too much to pull her hands away. They kiss like this for a while, remembering how easy it is between them, and it’s not until there’s another knock at the door that they break apart.

"I've missed that," Jemma says, a little breathlessly, and Catherine smiles. "Me too." And then goes to answer the door.

It’s Eleanor and Jules, grinning widely, so happy to see Catherine, who envelops Eleanor in a hug, clasps Jules’ forearm. She’s touched they made the trip. It makes her feel a bit weepier, truth be told.

"Let's grab a drink, eh? I know a quiet place a little bit from here." Catherine thinks about grabbing Jemma’s hand, but doesn’t. Her hair is messy, her sunglasses slightly off-kilter, but Catherine says nothing. Puts an arm around Eleanor and walks out with her, leaving Jemma and Jules to follow. They’ve waited out the throng, Catherine hopes, the eager fans. She loves meeting them, it’s true, but tonight she just feels sad and tired and wants to be with her friend. She wonders if they should've texted, picked a meeting spot further from the theater, and prying eyes.

There are still a lot of people. They knew Jemma came tonight, they want to see Jemma and Catherine together, but Jemma hunches in the background, tries to let Catherine have the spotlight, lets her sign the programs and the pictures. She’s got her fair share of admirers, though, and doesn’t completely escape into anonymity. Eleanor and Jules, too, get asked for pictures and to sign things. And then Catherine signs the last program, takes the last selfie, and she and and her Holby trio escape down the street, the night helping give them cover.

Jemma catches up to Catherine, Eleanor and Jules lagging behind now. Catherine wonders how much they know, how much they guess. 

"Got a light?" Jemma asks hopefully. She's been trying to quit, trying not to smoke as much, at least. Catherine fumbles in her coat pocket, pulls out a lighter and a cigarette, holds it to her lips and lights it easily, then passes it to Jemma, her lipstick stained on the end. 

They pass it back and forth then, a shared habit from Holby, from sharing a dressing room with a window and an easily dismantled smoke alarm. Catherine loves this play, loves her colleagues on the stage, but has so missed being around a woman her own age, one who gets so much about her without having to have anything explained. They have a shorthand that comes from being brought up in an acting family and being surrounded by actors and the lifestyle that comes with that. 

➜➜➜➜➜➜

They order drinks at the bar, a whiskey for them each. “I never thought I’d say it, but I think I’m tired of wine,” Catherine says at Jemma’s surprised eyebrow. “I’ve gotten a lot of it as gifts.” She shrugs. “I’ll be in shiraz until 2020. Besides, sometimes red wine stains my teeth.” Jemma laughs, more freely and easily than Bernie Wolfe ever does, and Catherine revels in the sound. Eleanor begs off quickly, says she has to run for her coach, but presses a kiss to Catherine’s cheek, a squeeze to Jemma’s shoulder. “See you at filming,” she says and Jemma nods, Jules too. Catherine feels a pang, misses it just a little. 

Jules has a lemonade, drinks it quickly, then says he has to get back. This isn’t really his kind of thing anyway, but Catherine appreciates he made the effort. He offers her a hug, a brief one, and tells her congratulations and that he enjoyed her performance immensely. He nods at Jemma, and leaves the bar without a second glance, his gait purposeful. He knows how to get back to his hotel.

“Your fans love you,” she says - she’s seen the photos on Twitter, the crowds of people seeing this bawdy play in Leicester or Bath so they can meet Catherine. She bumps Catherine’s shoulder affectionately as the bartender pours out their drinks, picks up both glasses and leads them to a table, Catherine trailing obediently, happily.

“They love  _ you _ . They’re just as much  _ our _ fans,” Catherine says, because she’s seen some things, read some things, knows that Doctor Who has it’s own cabal of fans that Jemma’s brought along with her. They sit next to each other, crowding into each other’s space, touching from shoulder to knee. Personal space is not something they’ve ever been good at. It wasn’t written into the script, all the moments where Bernie and Serena seem to gravitate into each other’s orbit, but happened naturally. Catherine finds Jemma undeniable.

“Are there always that many people there?” Jemma asks and Catherine shrugs. “Very nearly, but I think you being there made it worse.” She winks at Jemma, a quick drop of an eyelid, and leans into her. Jemma slings an arm around Catherine’s shoulder, keeps her close. They were meant to get dinner after the play, it was part of their plan, but Catherine doesn’t want to break this intimacy, this closeness. She’s missed it so much.

Catherine thinks about how she knew Jemma was in the audience from the first joke, that loud hoot of laughter, so freely given, so easily distinguished from all the rest of the polite audience chuckles, the titters of people unsure if they’re allowed to laugh yet. She wants to make Jemma laugh tonight, forever, and says, “I don’t know if you’ve been following my press tour -” Jemma rolls her eyes at this, “-but I did a radio interview and your  _ laugh  _ came up.” Jemma colors, embarrassed. But she knows how her laugh is. “I’m glad it was Eleanor and Jules today,” she offers. “Not known for their late nights. Glad it’s just the two of us now.” And Jemma squeezes Catherine, that arm around her shoulder holding her close. And then kisses Catherine, in full view of the bar, though no one’s looking at them, and this is the first time they’ve ever done this in public. Catherine feels a sense of relief that they’re in Bath and not in London or somewhere where they’re more easily recognizable, somewhere more bustling with cameras. Not that she thinks the paparazzi generally care what she or Jemma are up to on any given day, but she knows that their fanbase is, and is slightly grateful none of them have found her here. And she keeps kissing Jemma, like she can’t get enough, because it’s easy and it’s natural and she’s missed this. Even in her last days of filming Holby scenes, there were rarely times that they shot scenes together when they weren’t so close that not even a whisper of air could get between them.

“How’s it been, filming?” Catherine asks, when they’ve separated and Jemma takes a sip of whiskey, braces herself at the taste. They’ve texted, not much, just an occasional check in. It’s left Catherine feeling neglected, sad, lonely. So she’s thrown herself into the play, into her cast, just a bustling whirlwind to keep Jemma from her mind.

“Odd, without you. Can’t wait for you to get back,” Jemma says, and that’s it. And Catherine understands that Jemma isn’t here to talk about their real lives, their job, that place. They’re here, together, without the weight of a production schedule or the worry that they’ll be walked in on. That’s why Jemma’s here.

Catherine downs her drink, hisses slightly at the burn in her throat. “We can go back to my hotel,” she says bravely. Spending the night together, or the possibility of it, could change things. She doesn’t think it will, doesn’t think anything will be different, so she stands up and holds her hand out to Jemma, who takes it, lets herself be pulled up. 

The hotel isn’t far, their walk is quiet, just their hands touching, their breath visible puffs in the cold night air. Jemma shoots Catherine shy smiles, Catherine matches them. Jemma pulls her down a sidestreet, away from the lamplight, kisses her softly, quickly, many times. 

Kissing doesn't feel wrong, not with her. They started under the pretense of practice, and curiosity. Whose hands went where, whose mouth opened first, whose tongue would lead. A shared dressing room (by choice and request) meant that they could while away the hours between scenes practicing as they liked. Practicing sometimes just meant brief kisses on the cheek, holding hands, moments to make their intimacy onscreen look lived in and true. Sometimes it meant hands under scrub tops and blouses, exploring the sensations of feeling another woman. (Catherine did this in school, in university, too. Girls in theatre programs always feel the need to explore, she thinks). They haven't gone further, haven't gone below the waist.

There's something about being in Bath that makes Catherine think that might change.

➜➜➜➜➜➜

They walk into the lobby, drop their handhold, Jemma ducking her head in case she’s recognized. It’s night, there’s no excuse for sunglasses. She has a baseball cap, somewhere, didn’t bring it with her to the theater, didn’t think she’d need it. Now she feels tense, a little nervous. Catherine smiles sunnily at the desk attendant, walks straight to the elevator, Jemma following this time. She knows there’s no one around, but this all feels so public, and she has never, by nature, been a very public person. She doesn’t have Catherine’s exuberance or extroversion. 

The ride up to the room is quiet too, the silence surrounding them like a bubble, the anticipation threatening to pop it at any second. Catherine nudges Jemma to the left when they get off the lift, slides her key into the lock, opens the door easily. Her room is clean, clothes hanging in the closet, an abundance of scarves lying on the bureau. There’s a gift basket from the management, congratulating her on a successful run. Catherine touches the card lightly, is tempted to make some comment about unemployment lines, but doesn’t think she can find the real humor in it, not the way she’s feeling tonight. 

“Water? Tea?” Catherine gestures at the Keurig on the corner of the desk, the two styrofoam cups in their plastic wrappers. Jemma shakes her head, moves toward Catherine, hugs her tightly, bone-crunchingly, and Catherine thinks she must know how she’s feeling. Then Jemma pulls back, mirrors her gesture from the theater and places a hand on either side of Catherine’s head, pulls her head up ever so slightly, lets their breath mingle for a few heady moments before leaning in to kiss her.

Catherine hums happily into the kiss, wraps an arm around Jemma’s shoulders, holds her close, flicks her tongue against Jemma’s lips, tastes her lip gloss before Jemma opens her mouth. Jemma’s hands are at the belt on Catherine’s dress - the first time they’ve done this when Catherine isn’t wearing a baggy blouse and trousers. There’s a zipper at the back, but it’s awkward for Jemma to reach. Catherine senses Jemma’s mission, drops her arms and reaches around behind herself, contorting her shoulders to reach the zipper, pulls it down, then immediately moves to pull Jemma’s shirt over her head. 

Jemma pushes Catherine’s dress from her shoulders, and they’re bared to each other in this way for the first time. Catherine’s bra is sturdy, good for stage work, not meant to be enticing, but all Jemma can think of is Catherine on stage in the black nightie, waving a drink around, didn’t think there could be anything sexier, until now. For her part, she did dress to be alluring, a pale pink bra, delicate, lacy, Catherine’s fingers, with their bright red polish and sharp talons, reaching out to slide along the edge of a cup. She looks up at Jemma with wide eyes, wide with want and excitement, no doubt in them whatsoever. Her dress is bunched at her waist, and she pushes it down, steps out of it, and there she is, naked, save for knickers, no ounce of self-consciousness.

“You’ve shaved,” Jemma laughs, because she knows how Catherine hates it, has heard her rant about impossible beauty standards and why men want women who look like prepubescents. Catherine lifts a leg, pale and hairless, twists her ankle this way and that, then steps even closer to Jemma. 

“It’s still full seventies bush. No reason to trim that back.” Her voice is low and filthy and surprises a bark of laughter  out of Jemma, always surprised by Catherine’s candor. She boldly cups Catherine’s knickers, can feel the hair through the thin material, and Catherine whines slightly, moans, even. It doesn’t feel new, this step between them. It doesn’t feel unnatural or scary, it just feels like a logical thing they should do, something they should experience together. 

Catherine maneuvers them to the bed, pulls away so she can sit down, pats the space next to her and Jemma more than happily complies, gets back to the all-important business of kissing Catherine, slides her hands into Catherine’s pants, her fingers scraping through the hair. Catherine touches Jemma’s breasts, hefts one in each hand, each thumb rubbing at each nipple, fully pert in the cold air of the room, fully aroused. 

There’s a little bit of confusion, a tangle of limbs, figuring out whose hands go where. Jemma seems content to stroke through Catherine’s wetness forever, slowly teasing Catherine, keeping her on the edge. Catherine can’t get enough of Jemma’s mouth, loves the taste of her, can still taste the whisky. And then Jemma’s thumb toys with Catherine’s clit, a sharp, unexpected touch and Catherine can feel desire flow through her body, feels her body clench and tighten and a breathy moan escapes her.

She’s decided, from the moment she knew where this was headed, that she would know what every aspect of Jemma tastes like. She begins her journey by kissing Jemma, sloppy and wet, mouth open. She moves to Jemma’s jaw, kisses her moles, her freckles, licks a path down her neck. Jemma’s body is so smooth, long and lanky and lithe and Catherine can’t get enough of it, loves how different it is from a man’s body. She nips at Jemma’s breasts, visiting the nipples with her mouth this time. She swirls her tongue in the hollow of Jemma’s belly button and Jemma writhes slightly. She’s keyed up and on edge and that only urges Catherine on. 

Catherine feels nervous, feels brave, as she licks in between Jemma’s thighs, licks  _ into _ Jemma, and Jemma arches her beautiful back, thrusts into Catherine’s mouth. And Catherine rises to the challenge, flicking her tongue, letting her hand join her mouth, fully intent on making Jemma come loudly and quickly, and Jemma complies, a loud grunt escaping from her, Catherine’s mouth wet with Jemma’s heat. She rests her cheek against Jemma’s leg, swipes at her mouth, licks her fingers, and Jemma watches her with dark, hooded eyes. She pulls her legs up, crawls on all fours to Catherine, just a short distance away, and kisses her. Catherine almost can’t handle all the flavors of Jemma in her mouth at once.

And then Jemma pulls away, escapes to the bathroom and Catherine can hear the tap run, thinks they maybe both need a little space after this, feeling heady with her desire and happiness, sated with it too.

➜➜➜➜➜➜

Catherine is quiet, when Jemma comes back, when they’re sitting in bed. She’s leaning against the headboard, Jemma is sprawled at the foot of the bed, a sheet draped over her and she looks like some goddamn Renaissance artwork, like Botticelli’s muse. Jemma is looking through the text messages on her phone, types out a reply to someone, then puts it down and looks up at Catherine.

“Okay?” she asks, and Catherine smiles. “Very,” she says, because it’s true. She reaches out a foot to poke Jemma’s side lightly and Jemma catches it her toes in her hand, rubs the sole of Catherine’s foot gently with her thumbs. Catherine’s eyes roll closed at the comfort of the gesture, how nice it feels, and very nearly purrs at the sensation.

“Can we go to bed?” Catherine asks, though they’re already in bed. She wants to sleep, with Jemma close, wants to feel sad and tired and to close her eyes and have this day be over. But she wants to know that Jemma will be there in the morning when she wakes up. Jemma moves, so gracefully, pulling the sheet with her. Catherine pulls the comforter from the floor, where they kicked it off the bed earlier, pulls it over them. 

“I have to brush my teeth,” Catherine says, laughing, because they’re tucked in bed all cozy and she hates to extricate herself, but knows she needs to wash the theatre make-up off her face, thinks she might even need a second apart from Jemma to make sure she’s really fine with all of this. Even though she knows she is. She just thinks it’s what any other person might do if they found themselves in this situation. So she gets out of bed and scrubs at her face til it’s shiny and pink and clean, and brushes her teeth, and that’s when Jemma comes into the bathroom too, kisses Catherine quickly, easily, the minty toothpaste still in the corners of Catherine’s lips. Catherine drops her toothbrush next to the sink, pats Jemma’s rear as she leaves the washroom, gentler than she means to, but it comes off like a fond, well-rehearsed gesture, and Catherine can see Jemma’s eyes soften in her reflection.

They’ve never spent the whole night together, another new step in whatever this is. Catherine doesn’t know if Jemma likes to cuddle or spoon or have any contact whatsoever. But Catherine gets hot in the middle of the night, sticks a foot out from the under the covers, rests it on top of them. And waits for Jemma. She hears the faucet run, sees the light click off, and then Jemma slides into bed, so close their shoulders are touching. Catherine lets her hand find Jemma’s, who squeezes tight. And then Jemma kisses Catherine, so lightly, on the forehead, curls on her side so she’s facing Catherine, their hands still clasped, and falls asleep as though it’s the easiest thing in the world.

➜➜➜➜➜➜

They wake together in the morning, Catherine having moved onto her side, a mirror to Jemma, their foreheads almost touching. She reaches out to brush Jemma’s hair out of her face, holds her fringe gently between her thumb and forefinger before tucking it back. She kisses Jemma, doesn’t mind the morning breath.

“I have to get back soon, I think. Train leaves in a bit.” Jemma’s voice is husky with sleep and it makes Catherine feel very nearly weak. The real world creeps into this haven they’ve made for themselves, and Catherine brings a hand to her forehead, runs her fingers through her short hair.

“Let’s get breakfast. Then I’ll walk you to the station.” It’s Catherine’s last day in Bath, too. Home soon to her family, her pets, all very dear to her. But she wants this too. She wants it all and sometimes her heart hurts from wanting too much. She leans forward, very far, kisses Jemma on the mouth and slides out of bed, into the shower.

The water is hot, the mirror steams, and Jemma comes into the bathroom, a breath of cold air hitting Catherine, even through the shower curtain. And then Jemma slips into the tub with her, holds her close so the shower spray is hitting them both. 

This wet nakedness is beautiful and lovely, and it is too much, this skin on skin. Catherine shivers slightly, pulls away from Jemma’s embrace, turns in her arms. She follows a drip of water on Jemma’s face with her finger, and it plops from her chin, but Catherine’s finger stays, touching Jemma just there, holding her face where it is.

Jemma is still, catlike, waiting for Catherine to make the decision, make the move. And Catherine does, pulling Jemma’s face in, kissing her as the hot water slides across their scalps, slips into their open mouths, mixes with the taste on their tongues. Jemma backs Catherine against the wall, puts her hands back in that short, short hair, and Catherine thinks Jemma must like this haircut quite a bit, more than she herself does, if she’s honest. 

They kiss and kiss and it’s all Catherine can do to find the wherewithal to slide her hand in between their bodies, into the cleft of Jemma’s thighs. The pale, coarse hair is sparse, so different from Catherine’s own body. She nudges her fingers inside, one, then two, then three. Her thumb toys with Jemma’s clit, and Jemma is panting into Catherine’s mouth, already near the edge. The water keeps pouring over them, a waterfall to hide this from the world.

Jemma thrusts a thigh between Catherine’s leg and Catherine grinds into it, desperate for some friction as a counterbalance to her hand inside Jemma. It’s awkward, and inelegant, but it’s doing the job and they’re both breathing in short gasps. Catherine kisses Jemma again, long and deep, nibbling at her lips, those thin lips that can hold such humor, such brightness, pulls the lower lip into her mouth and sucks ever so gently at it. Then she twists her fingers, one well-practiced movement that she’s done to herself countless times, and Jemma is over the edge, moaning deeply into Catherine’s mouth. Catherine wipes her hand at the washcloth, holds out the bar of soap to Jemma. “Can you get my back,” is all she says because there’s nothing else she can think of to say; cliches are the only thing that are coming to mind.

➜➜➜➜➜➜

They get breakfast in the hotel restaurant. Catherine has a different scarf wrapped around her neck, a bulky coat, trying to maintain some semblance of being incognito. Jemma has her sunglasses on, her hair pulled back for once. Catherine doesn’t know who might be staying at this hotel, knows that any pictures of her and Jemma together will ignite their fanbase, but doesn’t want that to stop them from having a meal together.

Jemma’s foot slides against Catherine’s calf, a game she likes to play when they’re in public - seeing how far she can go before Catherine gets too flustered, or before their mains are served, whichever comes first. Catherine studiously looks at her menu, a well-practiced air of indifference about her, but all she’s really thinking about is sliding her foot out of her shoe to offer further points of contact. Now that she’s had Jemma’s skin against her own, she wants nothing but that, curses her idea to leave the hotel room. They could’ve ordered room service in their bathrobes.

She orders eggs and toast, Jemma just gets an orange juice, says she’s not really hungry, she’ll get something on the train. Catherine knows this means Jemma will be eating off her plate and starts rearranging the salt and pepper shakers to make it easier for her.

There’s something about this breakfast that’s bringing all her maudlin feelings back. This truly feels like the end, now. There’s no more rehearsals, she won’t be receiving any scripts in the mail. There’s just an expanse of unscheduled days yawning in front of her. It’s both welcome and terrifying. She’s done nothing but act for so long, worked hard to get where she is, that it feels strange to voluntarily take time away from it. Jemma’s looking at her strangely, she’s being quiet, reserved, and that’s not the Catherine most people get to see. 

“All right?” she asks, and Catherine nods, tries to bring a smile to her face.

“It just feels like it’s all over, a bit. Just end of show nonsense, you know how it goes.” And Jemma does. So she grabs Catherine’s hand, holds her fingers tight, and Catherine fights to keep the tears from pricking at her eyes. “You’ll have to let me know when you have a free weekend. I’ll come to visit. I have the time.” And she laughs, though it’s a laugh tinged with bitterness, and she thinks Jemma understands that too.

“Not sick of me yet?” Jemma jokes, trying to jostle Catherine from the mood she’s in, and Catherine appreciates it, but thinks she has to answer this question seriously. “Never,” is what she says, looking Jemma straight in the eyes, her tone brooking no argument. Jemma’s eyes soften, that look that Catherine loves so much. 

Then the food comes and their hands drop and Catherine moves her plate to the center of the table. Jemma scoops some egg onto a slice of toast and chews eagerly. She’s hungrier than she said, Catherine doesn’t know why she just didn’t order something for herself, but doesn’t question it. 

Breakfast gets charged to Catherine’s room, they leave the restaurant, Jemma’s bags in tow. Catherine wishes she’d thought to be packed too, thinks she doesn’t really want to go back to her room alone. “How much time before your train?” Catherine asks, her voice a little trembly and Jemma looks at her sharply. 

“Enough - why?” She stops walking, turns to face Catherine, who can only manage a little bit of a shrug. “I’ll help you pack.” And Catherine has never been so grateful to have Jemma as a friend as she is in this moment. They go back to the lift, take it up to Catherine’s room, Jemma leading the way this time, as if she thinks Catherine might demur, say she doesn’t need any help after all. She holds her hand out for the key and Catherine hands it over dutifully.

Packing takes almost no time, but saying good-bye takes longer. Catherine kisses Jemma on her cheek in thanks, right next to her lips, her own lipstick, bright red and loud, smearing on her skin. And then Jemma turns her head ever so slightly and takes Catherine full on the mouth. And her tongue is flicking at Catherine’s lips, sliding along their seam. Catherine’s arms slide underneath Jemma’s, around her slim waist, holding her tight. She will never get tired of this, she thinks. She’ll  _ miss _ this. 

Catherine thinks they could easily fall into bed together again, thinks they might never leave this hotel, but for Jemma’s train, so she pulls away, regretfully. Pulls at Jemma’s hand, looks at the watch on her wrist. “You have to go, you’ll be late,” she says. Wonders how reliable the trains are from Bath. She hasn’t had to take them much.

Jemma looks at her watch too, curses under her breath. “I’ll have to run,” she says, one more kiss pressed to Catherine’s mouth. It’s only after Jemma’s left that Catherine realizes that Jemma’s running to her train with Catherine’s lipstick on her cheek.

  
  



End file.
